The king sighed, sending a whispering wind through every crevice of the cavern. The breeze fluttered Carmer’s hair.
“Why should I intervene, if my daughter chooses to take a human for her own?” the king asked. He definitely sounded bored.
“Because . . . because you can’t just go around ‘taking’ people you don’t like!” exclaimed Carmer, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Bell didn’t do anything!”
“It has been many years since I spoke to a human,” mused the king. “I am starting to remember why . . .” The massive head began to turn, features blurring back to the natural formation of the cave.
“Wait,” said Carmer. He might have expected refusal, or even mockery—as Mister Moon would have surely done—but this . . . indifference? How did he hold the attention of someone so ancient that a boy like Carmer must seem like an ant under his shoe? What could he possibly have to offer the Unseelie king, a guy who made a throne out of his enemies just for fun?
“Wait!”
Maybe it wasn’t about what he could offer the Unseelie king. Maybe it was about what the king should offer him.
“You owe me a life!” Carmer shouted after the king. “You owe me for bringing you the traitor, Gideon Sharpe!”
The rocks paused, flowing back into the shape of the king’s face.
“Gideon Sharpe was responsible for the deaths of scores of faeries,” Carmer went on. “And I stopped him. I brought him to the Wild Hunt, back in Skemantis, to face Unseelie justice. So . . . I’d say you owe me one.”
Those two-foot-tall eyes didn’t look so sleepy anymore.
“A life for a life,” Carmer said. “Gideon Sharpe for Bell Daisimer. The princess will get over it.”
Eventually, he added silently. One shining, limestone eyebrow lifted in what Carmer thought might have been amusement.
“A life for a life,” the king repeated. “And you are sure this is the one you choose?”
Carmer nodded. The king closed his eyes; one of the long tendrils of his beard snaked out even farther, circling the room and prying open the mother-of-pearl doors. The other stones rippled in response.
“He is here,” said the king, opening his eyes.
“How do you know?” asked Carmer.
“Because I am everywhere.”
Fair enough, thought Carmer.
“It’s too bad you can’t stay, Felix Carmer III,” said the king, his eyes already drifting shut again. “Though I suppose, as it’s unlikely you’ll take a liking to the mermaids . . .”
And just like that, a giant whirlpool crashed through the throne room doors and swept Carmer off his feet.
THE NEXT THING Carmer knew, he was washing up onto the shore of Driftside City, a curiously helpful wave shoving him up under his rear end until he stood and wobbled the rest of the way to dry land. Only after he had taken a few gasping, blessedly water-free breaths of air and collapsed in the sand did he notice the figure flopped down next to him.
Bell Daisimer sat up and dug his fingers into the sand as if he’d never felt anything so terrific in his life.
“I never thought I’d say this,” said Bell. “But boy, am I glad to have two feet on solid ground again.”
He clapped Carmer, who was already starting to turn into a human icicle, on the back. Carmer took a quick stock of their surroundings: the beach was deserted, but the lights of Driftside City’s carnival weren’t that far off. Carmer took a few shaky steps and held on to the tall lifeguard’s chair—empty now, naturally, in the dead of winter—for support.
A few feet away, a tilted sign for swimmers read, DO NOT LEAVE CHILDREN UNATTENDED.
Carmer snorted and pointed the sign out to Bell. When Tinkerton’s search party from the Wonder Show finally found them, half frozen and covered in sand, they were still laughing at it.
25.
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
Princess Purslain Ashenstep flew through the bowels of the Unseelie palace and straight to her private chambers with every intention of smashing the room to bits. She didn’t care that she’d spent nearly a hundred years building that collection. She almost laughed at how stupid she had been. What did it matter that she knew how a protractor worked, or how to play chess, or that she could make sense of the silly scribbles the humans used to record their (far inferior) stories? She would never know enough to truly understand them.
With the changeling girl in her possession, everything would have been different. Rinka’s inventions could have brought an entire fleet of airships down in flames. Pru could have driven the humans back from the wild places they hadn’t yet managed to bring fully to heel. They would learn to fear the fae again, because the fae would learn to fight back.
Pru had heard about Princess Grettifrida Lonewing, the little one-winged Seelie who could use her fire magic as no other fae could, to manipulate the humans’ own electricity against them—who had rebelled against her own ineffective sovereign and forged alliances among all the fae of her city to defeat their common enemy. Pru had been excited to meet such a girl.
But then, Grit had not only broken every rule of etiquette by not declaring herself to the king, but had fallen in with the biggest group of street fae she could find within hours of setting foot inside the city. Alliances of convenience to preserve the fate of the fae were one thing; willingly associating with the lawless vagabonds who would dilute faerie power, serve at the humans’ beck and call, and ignore thousands of years of faerie tradition was another.
Pru flew faster, trying to shake off every memory of the horrid girl. What a disappointment the entire affair had been. She would summon Mister Moon right away, no matter what desolate corner of the globe he was supposed to be prowling tonight. She would have him and his warrior prisoners hound that stupid flying circus to the ends of the earth if she had to. Rinka’s gentle heart would soon give in—and Pru’s father need never know.
The curtain of hanging vines cordoning off her rooms separated as she approached, as it always did. But the room inside was nothing like she’d left it. Pru had been dead set on destroying her collection in her fury—but it was already destroyed.
Her playing cards and photographs were ripped to shreds. Her phonograph horn looked as if a giant shoe had stomped on it. The needles from her hanging compass collection had been torn free and jabbed into the wall like arrows in some sort of target practice. Her pens and quills had been snapped, the spoons and forks bent backward into angles so awful they looked like tangles of broken limbs. Her china tower—the beautifully crafted cups and bowls and sugar dishes she’d spent ages foraging the ocean floor for—was nothing but a pile of porcelain shards, some pieces ground to less than dust.
Fear trickled down Pru’s spine; it wasn’t an emotion she was used to feeling, and it was much more unpleasant than her anger, or even her disappointment.
“Is something the matter, my daughter?” Her father spoke from the single remaining undamaged photograph, a pale old man with a grizzled beard so long it trailed down to the floor and looped all the way back up again over his shoulder.
Pru couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her father face-to-face; perhaps he was so ancient, he just didn’t feel the need to have a face at all. She sat in front of the frame, gingerly avoiding the shards of her smashed possessions. “No, Father,” said Pru, but she couldn’t bring herself to look into the old man’s piercing eyes. Come to think of it, she could hardly remember the last time they’d spoken.
“I had an interesting visitor tonight,” mused the king. “A young boy. A Friend of the Fae.”
Pru silently cursed Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III with every fiber of her being. If someone didn’t stop that little upstart soon, he was going to turn into someone important enough to have all of those names.
“Really?” Pru asked with a tone of perfectly mild interest.
“He asked me to release one of your prisoners,” her father said, “so I did.”
Pru clenched her hands into fists at her sides; feathers o
f grayish lichen oozed out between her fingers. She sat on her hands to hide them from her father.
As if she could hide anything from him for long.
“He seemed concerned about you,” continued the king, “as did some of the guards I questioned after bidding him farewell.”
So he’d “questioned” the mermaids loyal to her. Pru wondered if they still had tails.
“Should I be concerned about you?” asked the king, his voice so deep the floor shook. Pieces of broken crockery and glass danced across the ground in a nervous jitter.
“No, Father,” said Pru again. She picked up the ends of her hair and ran her fingers through it, still not meeting his eyes, surreptitiously smoothing out the jagged, icy locks into their usual silky strands.
“The Seelie Court gained two new members tonight,” the king said, as nonchalantly as if he were commenting on the weather, “and . . . a queen.”
But Pru had seen her father in action enough to know the weather was more likely to comment on him.
And what are you going to do about it? Pru wanted to scream, but the problem with arguing with a father who was also basically the castle you lived in was that he was also the castle you lived in. Those watchful walls could get awfully close, awfully fast.
“Wetherwren Light is nothing, Father,” said Pru. “I’ll toss that crumbling rock into the sea before first light. But if you would just let me—”
“That girl is gaining followers, Purslain,” said the king. Pru didn’t have to guess very hard at who “that girl” was. “Fae from all corners of our world whisper about the brave princess with the human-forged wing who nearly gave her life for us all.”
Pru crossed her arms and finally met her father’s gaze. She didn’t bother to hide her glare.
“What do they whisper about you?” he asked.
The glass in the picture frame shattered.
CARMER STARED OVER his steaming mug of hot chocolate at Rinka Tinkerton. He was probably being rude, but it was kind of hard not to stare.
Since her initiation into the Seelie Court, Rinka had become decidedly more faerie-like. She had already shrunk to about four feet tall and was getting so much shorter every day that Tinkerton couldn’t buy her new clothes fast enough.
“When do I tell him I probably won’t be wearing clothes at all, as soon as I find my tree to live in?” Rinka had whispered conspiratorially to Carmer. He’d blushed so red Grit had nearly choked with laughter.
“That’s, well . . . that’s a very personal choice,” Carmer said. He advised her to keep the decision to herself for now.
The Wonder Show would head north to escort Rinka to Queen Ombrienne’s kingdom in the Oldtown Arboretum. Rinka wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay in the park, but there wasn’t a better place for a crash course in all things faerie; it was also a good idea for her to lie low in relative safety from the Unseelies while all the excitement they’d caused died down.
The faeries of the Wonder Show were free to go or stay as they pleased; Carmer thought Beamsprout, in particular, might enjoy the chance to meet the Free Folk of Skemantis. Tinkerton was keeping the Wonder Show open, at least for the time being, though he’d had to accept it might not be quite as literally magical as before. Even if he couldn’t be with his daughter—or the girl he’d thought of as his daughter for sixteen years—he could be closer to her through the creation they’d built together. (Also, since there wasn’t much point in denying it, he still wanted the money.)
Carmer didn’t know what Rinka really thought of being used for her intellect for so many years, sheltered from the outside world to a degree that had shaped every part of her. Rinka loved her father, it was true. But she was also taking the first chance she got to live in a tree and possibly never speak to another human being ever again.
He was surprised her hands were still so nimble; he could see the knobs of her gnarly knuckles through the gloves she wore to protect herself from her own iron tools. Grit sat on a little makeshift stool with her back to Rinka, her mechanical wing extended and held in place by small metal clamps. She was trying her best not to look nervous, but Carmer could tell by the tension in her shoulders that she was wary about someone else touching her wing—especially someone whose fingers kept changing size and shape by the hour.
Carmer took another sip of his hot chocolate—he had endeavored to have a hot beverage in his hands pretty much at all times since his rescue from the beach—and leaned in over Rinka’s shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t want to use a helical gear there?” he asked.
Rinka’s gloved hands paused. “You are blocking my light.”
“Stop blocking her light,” scolded Grit.
Carmer backed away in surrender. “How am I supposed to learn from this if you won’t tell me what you’re doing?” he grumbled.
“I’ll write everything down in my notes for you,” Rinka assured him, and turned back to Grit. Carmer could have sworn he’d seen her roll her eyes. So much for the shy changeling he’d met who would barely talk to him. “Later.”
Carmer took the hint. The ship was starting to feel a little small for his taste.
“Grit?” he asked. He wasn’t about to leave his friend at Rinka’s mercy if she didn’t feel comfortable, but Grit waved him off with a flick of her fingers, careful not to move too much.
“Stop hovering like a mother hen,” she said. “I’ll come find you when the girl genius is done fixing your mistakes.”
Carmer went around to the other side of the table and looked Grit straight in the eye. Her little face looked tired and pinched, but she winked at him all the same.
“As my queen commands,” teased Carmer with a small bow.
“I’ll boil that hot chocolate right on your tongue.”
Carmer smiled and backed out of the ship before Rinka could glower at the two of them again.
He ran into Bell Daisimer at the foot of the hatch.
“Oh,” said Carmer. “Um, hi.”
“Hi yourself,” said Bell with an attempt at his trademark smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. They’d barely spoken since Tinkerton and some of the Wonder Show employees had found them on the beach. First there had been some time spent fending off hypothermia, and then Carmer and Nan and Tinkerton had to have a few more strained chats with the Driftside City police department, and now that they each had their share of the reward money in their pockets . . . well, they’d be parting ways soon, wouldn’t they?
“Do you want some stew?” Carmer blurted. It was as if his instinct to serve everyone tea in awkward moments and his newfound desire to never be cold ever again had turned him into a monster who forced warm food and drink onto every innocent bystander in his path. “I mean, um, the cooks should be serving some. For lunch. Right about now.”
Bell nodded. “I never say no to a free lunch.”
They exchanged a few updates about Grit and Rinka while they waited in the lunch line, but the talk felt strained, and they soon fell silent. When they sat down at one of the picnic tables set up at the camp, no one else joined them, though they were the subjects of quite a few curious stares. Carmer didn’t know how much the crew and performers knew about the events of the past week, but he was willing to bet his presence was enough to start the gossip mill churning.
Carmer dug into his stew, mostly for something to do with his hands, but the other boy merely picked at his, occasionally giving it a listless stir with his spoon and staring off into space. He was staring in the direction of the water—and Pru’s castle.
“So,” Carmer said finally, “have you decided what you’re going to do yet?”
Bell’s attention snapped back to Carmer, as if he just realized someone else was sitting across from him. But he smiled when he said, “Actually, I have.” He looked almost surprised. “I’m going to work for the Blythes,” Bell said. “They’re looking for a pilot brave enough to take some of their new planes for a spin.”
Carmer shoved a spoonful of s
tew into his mouth. Or crazy enough.
“And”—Bell took a deep breath—“they’re going to help me clear my name in the Jasconius crash. Robert Blythe isn’t too keen on the chance of someone coming out of the woodwork to sue his best pilot, he said.”
“What are you going to tell people?”
“Exactly what happened,” said Bell. “That I saw an intruder, but I didn’t get a good look at their face. They overpowered me, and I must’ve hit my head, because the next thing I remember is running over the field.”
Bell’s eyes were hard, like he was already daring a detective to contradict him instead of talking to a friend who knew the whole truth already. His knees bounced up and down under the table, jostling the whole thing.
“Bell . . .” Carmer started. “Are you . . . okay?”
It was a stupid question. Bell had been terrified. His mind had been manipulated. He’d nearly frozen to death and been captured and held hostage under the ocean in a magical alternate dimension by the same faerie who’d done said manipulating. She’d probably tortured him, just as she had Carmer—maybe worse. And all because Bell had the misfortune to run into Felix Carmer III.
Bell’s mouth twitched, a tight line of bitter amusement. “To be honest?” he asked, knees still bouncing. “Not really.”
Carmer stared miserably into his stew. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.
“I still think I’m there sometimes, at night,” Bell confessed. “I still see my guards. I still hear her mermaids singing, in my dreams. You know, they’re really not that pretty at all in person.”
Carmer made a noncommittal noise. The suckers might have something to do with that, he thought. But the lump in his throat kept him from saying so.
“Bell,” Carmer finally choked out, “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Bell repeated. “For what?”
“If it weren’t for me,” Carmer said, “if we hadn’t gone into the graveyard that day, if I hadn’t asked you to come back to Driff City . . . none of this would have happened to you.” And suddenly it was all pouring out of him—the story of how he’d met Gideon Sharpe, how Gideon had realized his mistakes and come to Carmer and the faeries with the hope of protection, or at least a fair trial. How Mister Moon had sneered at them and imprisoned Gideon with the Wild Hunt without even a chance to defend himself. How Carmer had just stood there, and then ran, because he didn’t know what else to do.
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